


The Set Up

by RobinLeStrange



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Curry Night, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Ilsa is very naughty, and Nick loves it!, bed sharing, but the sofa bed's broken, can't think how they could solve that problem, sleepover, tiny bit of angst and pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-25 12:13:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22295776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLeStrange/pseuds/RobinLeStrange
Summary: Robin and Strike are enjoying a curry at the Herbert's for Ilsa's birthday, but a broken sofa bed and a thunderstorm bring them into closer proximity than they expected...oh dear, what a shame 😉😆!
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike, Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 9
Kudos: 104
Collections: Love Letters: A Cormoran Strike Valentine's Day Fest





	The Set Up

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [StrikeLoveLetters](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/StrikeLoveLetters) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> The Set Up

Another Friday, another curry night at the Herberts’. It was six months now since Robin had lived with them, but their fortnightly get-togethers – her, Ilsa, Nick and Strike – had become something of a tradition.

She was running late, held up on a surveillance job, and barely had time to shower and change, hastily re-doing her make up on the bus to Octavia Street. She’d left Ilsa’s birthday present and her overnight bag at the office for Strike to bring with him on the off chance she wouldn’t have even had time to go home, and hoped he’d remembered them.

She spotted the bags in the hallway as soon as the door opened, greeted Ilsa with a hug and a kiss on the cheek and followed her into the kitchen, where Strike and Nick were seated at the table watching with some amusement as Ossie and Ricky, the Herbert’s cats, chased each other round the room.

Robin smiled at the sight of her business partner. It had been a long, busy week with some gruelling surveillance work, and it was good to see him more relaxed, beer in hand, leaning back in his chair in black jeans and soft, olive green shirt she hadn’t seen before. His attention was firmly on the cats and she allowed her gaze to linger a while, taking in the broad shoulders, sexy forearms beneath rolled up sleeves and tuft of dark chest hair peeking out of the open neck of his shirt.

It was a luxury she rarely allowed herself these days. It was just that bit too tempting, just a little too disruptive to her equilibrium.

“You’re here at last!” he greeted her with a grin, “Sorry you got stuck on that one.”

“It’s all good, I got some great photos so it was well worth it. I’ll show you in a minute when I’ve a got a…”

“Your wine’s in the fridge,” Strike finished, “I think I got the right one…and we’ve ordered already – your usual and that duck thing you mentioned that you fancied trying last time. Thought we could share?”

“Great,” Robin beamed back at him, as she poured herself a glass of white wine, which was indeed her favourite, oblivious to both the smirks and sideways glances being exchanged between Nick and Ilsa, and to Strike’s sweeping gaze whilst he knew no-one else was looking at him. She was wearing a black, floral patterned wrap-over style tunic with three-quarter length sleeves, which clung delightfully to her breasts and emphasised her slender waist. Beneath she wore fitted black leggings and knee high, suede heeled boots, which she shucked off and placed on the rack by the back door before heading to the table, forcing Strike to reluctantly return his concentration to the antics of the resident felines.

Robin slid into the chair beside him and pulled her phone from her pocket, tapping on the screen to bring up the photos of the unfaithful fiancé she’d been tailing. Strike shuffled closer and steadied the phone with his hand, his fingertips momentarily brushing hers as he did so.

“They’re great,” he acknowledged. “Certainly no wriggling out of that.”

“Yup,” agreed Robin, putting the phone back in her bag. “At least she’ll be able to get out before going through the expense of a wedding and then adding the cost and embarrassment of a divorce on top,” she said drily.

Her decree absolute had been granted a few weeks previously, bringing with it a massive sense of relief that a line was finally being drawn under her lengthy and at times, traumatic, relationship with Matthew Cunliffe.

Strike’s eyes met hers and he gave her hand a brief, sympathetic squeeze which she returned fleetingly.

“Right enough of that,” she said, getting to her feet, “Shall I go and get Ilsa’s present?”

From her position at the counter, filling bowls with cat food, Ilsa grinned.

“I like the sound of that.”

* * *

Robin topped up Ilsa’s glass of wine and smiled fondly at the sound of Strike and Nick teasing each other good-naturedly about the football as they stacked the dishwasher. Her friend sighed and shook her head.

“Honestly, you two…” said Ilsa, exasperated.

“What?!” replied Robin.

“Oh, come on…you can’t possible be oblivious to it. He turns up here with all your stuff, having bought your favourite wine. Then proceeds to order exactly what you like from the curry house, including remembering the dish you mentioned in passing even though that was almost a month ago ‘cos you and Nick were working so we missed a week.”

“So?” replied Robin, “He’s efficient and has a good memory…and we possibly eat too many takeaways.”

“None of which would explain how twitchy he was about you being late, or the million and one other little indicators that he sees you as a lot more than just a business partner. Don’t forget, I’ve known him since we were six Robin.”

Robin merely rolled her eyes and took a large mouthful of wine, turning her attention to Ricky, who had jumped up on the sofa and was kneading her leg with his tiny paws, trying to decide whether cushion or lap would be the more comfortable option.

“And I saw how you looked at him when you came into the kitchen. It’s not the first time I’ve noticed that either…”

“Perhaps you should be the bloody detective then,” snapped Robin, huffing. “Sorry, I just…you’re right. Everything you’ve said, you’re right. But whatever he thinks or feels he clearly doesn’t want to do anything about it for whatever reason, and I just have to accept that. It doesn’t mean I can’t care for him as a friend.”

“It’s the twenty-first century Robin. You know you don’t have to wait for him to make a move?”

“Notwithstanding the fact he’s the senior partner and if I do or say something and it buggers up our working relationship, I’m going to be the one without a job. I can’t afford to take that risk now I’m on my own.”

Ilsa could see that Robin was fighting back tears, although she wasn’t sure whether they were caused by the situation with Strike or her newly divorced status. From the kitchen they both heard the sound of the dishwasher turning on. Robin sniffed determinedly and blinked.

“They’re coming in. Let’s change the subject.”

* * *

“I think I’m going to turn in,” announced Robin, shortly before midnight, “It’s been a lovely evening, but a very long week.”

“You’re not wrong,” agreed Strike. “I’m just gonna nip out for a cigarette, and then you can show me how this new sofa bed works,” he addressed Ilsa.

He said goodnight to Robin at the bottom of the stairs and headed out through the kitchen into the back garden. When he returned a few minutes later he was greeted by the sight of a perplexed Nick and Ilsa, and a decidedly lopsided sofa bed. They both looked at him as he entered the room.

“I’m so sorry Corm, we should have checked after they delivered it. There’s a screw missing from the fold-out mechanism.”

He chuckled. “No worries, I can just…” There was a pause as they all took in the size of the matching two-seater. Unlike the old three-seater sofa and pair of armchairs they had replaced, neither of them were suitable for Strike’s six foot three bulk. He checked his watch.

“If I head off now, I should make the last bus, otherwise I’ll grab a cab. I can pick the car up tomorrow some time.”

Robin, who had come downstairs for a glass of water, popped her head around the sitting room door. She was wearing pale mint green flannel pyjamas printed with pastel coloured love hearts, and Strike’s stomach flipped a full 360 degrees. He had never wanted to leave a room less than he did at that moment.

“What’s up? Why aren’t you staying?”

“Faulty sofa bed,” frowned Ilsa, “Unless…”

Both Robin and Strike realised with some trepidation what was coming and studiously avoided meeting one another’s eyes.

“…the spare bed is a six-footer, perhaps you could…share? We’re all friends after all.”

“Erm…”

“I’m not sure…”  
  
Before either partner could voice their objections, there was an almighty clap of thunder, followed by a flash of lightening that illuminated the whole house and sent Ricky and Ossie darting behind the bookcase in the furthest corner of the room. Moments later the sound of torrential rain clattered against the windows.

Robin steeled herself to look at Strike.

“Why not?” she shrugged, “You can’t go out in that and you need to rest your leg tomorrow not be traipsing about picking the car up.”

He looked at her uncertainly.

“Are you sure?”

She shrugged. “We’ve slept in the Land Rover before and there’s a damn sight more space in the spare room.”

What Robin didn’t realise, thought Strike, was that she had been the only one sleeping during that long night in the Land Rover after they’d arrived in Barrow in the early hours. He’d insisted she take the more comfortable bench in the back of the vehicle whilst he reclined in the front seat, but he’d barely nodded off when he’d been awoken by the sound of Robin whimpering in her sleep. Having loosened his prosthesis, he was helpless to do anything but watch until the nightmare ceased. It had lasted only a couple of minutes, but he’d been on the verge of reattaching his leg and heading round to the back of the car when it finally stopped, such was its apparent intensity by the end. He’d reattached his prosthesis afterwards, and barely taken his eyes off her for the rest of the night, not wanting to sleep through another episode in case it was worse and she needed him. He’d never told her what he had witnessed, and if she had ever suspected that might have exacerbated his over-protectiveness during the remainder of the Shacklewell Ripper case, she’d never said.

“You could always top and tail,” added Ilsa brightly.

Robin raised her eyebrows.

“Have you seen the size of his feet?” she joked, causing Strike to laugh and Ilsa to smirk surreptitiously at her husband, whilst Robin blushed furiously as she realised that ‘feet’ plural was wholly inaccurate. It wasn’t the first time she’d made a similar faux pas, seeing Strike as she did, simply as the man she knew and cared for, not the unfortunate by-product of an IED and bad timing.

“OK then,” agreed Strike, still reluctant, but even less enthusiastic about hauling his slightly tipsy self and his painful stump across London in a thunderstorm late at night.

* * *

Robin was already in bed by the time Strike had finished his ablutions and changed into pyjama bottoms and a long-sleeved t-shirt in the bathroom across the landing. She was on the far side, nearest the window, and he wondered if that had been the side she was used to sleeping on with Matthew, or if she had chosen it out of convenience for his sake.

She looked up and smiled somewhat nervously at him.

“Well, this is, um…it’s been a while since I had a sleepover.”

“I don’t think I ever had sleepovers,” replied Strike. “Wasn’t really an option at Ted and Joan’s, and when we were living with mum, well…she probably would have been fine with the idea, but other parents, maybe not so much.” He gave a rueful shrug as he dropped down onto the edge of the bed and began the process of unfastening his prosthesis.

“I suppose people weren’t so tolerant of unconventional lifestyles then.”

“Can’t really blame any parents for being intolerant of their kids hanging out at a place where weed was on the menu as often as fish fingers,” he snorted, “Anyway, I so rarely had a room to myself growing up that when I did, I liked to make most of it.”

“Hmmm…I can understand that,” replied Robin.

“Okay if I put the lamp out?” Strike drew a line under the conversation.

“Sure, goodnight.”

“’Night, Robin.”

* * *

Thirty minutes later Robin opened her eyes, still wide awake despite her best efforts. She had practised – as quietly as possible – some of her breathing exercises, counted sheep and tried to recall the name of every client they had had over the preceding three years and put them in alphabetical order. Even the sound of the rain hammering against the window, normally a sound she loved to go to sleep to, hadn’t helped. Nothing was working.

She kept recalling the conversation with Ilsa earlier that evening. The welcome sight of Strike looking gorgeous in his apparently new shirt when she’d arrived. She could hardly believe she’d thought him unattractive in the early days of their working together, when these days she frequently struggled to keep her eyes off him. Of course, there was a whole lot more to her feelings than that, which is why she was now wondering what had possessed her to agree so readily to what was clearly a very foolish idea. The trip to Barrow haunted her as she lay there in the dark. They’d stayed five rooms apart that night, and with Matthew’s text echoing in her head ‘If you sleep with him, we’re finished for good’, she’d been able to think about little else. God knows she’d thought about sleeping with Strike often enough since, although she tried to keep her illicit fantasies as infrequent and lacking in detail as possible. It wouldn’t do if she was unable to look him in the eye at work.

She shifted slightly, worried that she’d get cramp from laying so still for so long, and although it wasn’t cold, she was aware of the space between her and Strike, the breadth of his shoulders allowing a draft of air between them as they lay back to back beneath the duvet. She found herself fighting the urge to shuffle backwards and close the gap between duvet and mattress but doing so would also mean closing the gap between her and Strike.

Robin strongly suspected he wasn’t sleeping either. He’d nodded off on the office sofa and on long car journeys frequently enough that she knew how his breathing changed, even if he wasn’t snoring.

Sure enough, on the other side of the bed Strike was lying rigid, wide awake, craving a cigarette and bitterly regretting having been talked into such a ridiculous arrangement. If being around Robin during the day without slipping up and letting his feelings show was difficult, laying next to her in the Herberts’ spare bed was utter torture.

He’d been pleasantly tipsy, even as he’d prepared to walk to the bus stop after the sofa bed malfunction, but the moment he’d slid under the duvet he’d sobered up with alarming speed. Where he’d normally be asleep the moment his head hit the pillow, he was now totally convinced he would be unable to sleep a wink. He was terrified he’d wake up having pulled Robin into his arms whilst he slept, or that his body would betray him in an even more embarrassing way. He only dared give a fleeting thought to the number of times since Robin’s divorce he’d woken up after dreaming about her with the kind of erection that demanded immediate attention. Christ, he’d never be able to face her again if that happened. It wasn’t like he could make a quick escape either - he could hardly sleep with his prosthesis still attached.

Robin wondered if the fact she was facing the window, with its thin, light curtain and streetlamp almost directly outside wasn’t helping. Bracing herself she yawned, stretched a little and rolled over to face the opposite direction…at the same time as Strike did exactly the same.  
He regarded her sympathetically for a moment in the dull blue-white light.

“Trouble sleeping?”

“Mmm, you too?”

“A bit. I suppose this room doesn’t bring back the greatest memories for you.”

“Could be worse,” she replied, and Strike cursed himself, knowing that she was referring to her bedroom back in Masham, where she’d been almost a prisoner due to the agoraphobia she’d suffered after being attacked at university.

“I guess I’ve just got used to sleeping on my own,” she continued, “It’s kind of strange sharing a bed again, especially with someone I can’t touch.”

_Fuck! Where had that come from? In vino veritas…_

Mortified, Robin tried to look away but found herself unable to break free from Strike’s intense gaze. She was hyper aware that she was slightly breathless and could feel the flush of embarrassment creeping up her neck and across her cheeks.

The voice of common sense was attempting to make itself heard from the back of Strike’s brain, but suddenly he felt slightly drunk again, although he was no longer sure the light-headedness he was feeling was alcohol related.

_You mustn’t go there…_

“Robin…” his voice was a ragged whisper.

_Stop it, you can’t say that…_

“…truth be told…” he swallowed hard.

_There will be no coming back from this…_

But the voice of common sense was getting more and more distant, drowned out by the intoxicating scent and nearness of Robin.

“…I really wouldn’t mind if you touched me.”

He saw her eyes widen and heard her sharp, shaky intake of breath. On the pillow between them her hand twitched involuntarily, and he took it in his, first raising it to his lips, then pressing it against his chest, holding it there so she could feel the effect she had on him in the thundering beat of his heart beneath her fingertips.

She sighed softly and closed her eyes, and a moment later she felt him close the gap between them and press his lips gently against hers. In a split second she was kissing him back, tentatively at first then with more confidence. He felt her lips soften and part slightly against his and he slid his tongue hesitantly between them, exploring her mouth which elicited a muffled groan of pleasure from Robin, and an immediate rush of blood to his groin.

After a long minute they parted, drinking in the sight of one another, dazed and heavy eyed in the lamplight. Strike had made no move to pull Robin closer, even though he was desperate to. Knowing her history and being all too aware of his very obvious arousal, he needed her to be in control of the situation.

She turned the hand that was on his chest over, taking his large one and placing it on her waist.

“You know, I really don’t mind you touching me either,” she said, shyly.

He raised his hand to stroke her hair back from her face, his thumb ghosting over her cheek and across her lips before pulling her close and kissing her far more thoroughly. She instantly felt how hard he was against her hip and gasped out loud, bringing him up short.

“Robin,” he said hoarsely, “I can’t pretend that I don’t want you, but you have my word that nothing is going to happen in this bed tonight – or at any other time – unless you want it to. You know that don’t you?”

“Of course, I trust you completely. I was just surprised.”

Strike couldn’t help but chuckle. “I have no idea why you’d be surprised at the effect you have on me…” he kissed her again, first on the mouth, then along her jawline, up and over her ear and down the side of her neck, feeling her relax beneath him. He was just able to access the beginning of her collar bone at the neckline of her pyjama jacket, but he wanted so much more. “Robin,” he murmured into the warm skin that smelt so distinctly of her, “I want to touch you,” he raised his head to look her in the eye, wanting to be certain of her answer, “Is that okay?”

She smiled and nodded, albeit a little self-consciously.

He slid a large warm hand slowly from her hip, up her torso to the top button of the pyjama jacket, and deftly unfastened it, dropping his lips to the skin revealed beneath. He gradually worked his way down, occasionally returning to explore her mouth further between buttons, trailing a path down her neck and chest and onto the next one with his lips and tongue each time. At last, he pushed aside the soft, cotton fabric and feasted his eyes on the sight of her pale, subtle curves, and the dark, swollen nipples topping each perfect breast.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathed. He’d rarely allowed himself to think that a moment such as this would ever happen, and now it had he felt somewhat overwhelmed. It was a new experience for Strike, who was a confident and skilled lover, but one that was not at all unpleasant, even if it was a little unnerving.

Robin opened her eyes and reached up, curling her hand around the nape of his neck, burying her fingertips in the surprisingly soft hair at the base of his scalp as she pulled him down for another kiss. This time she was in control, opening her mouth and eagerly seeking his tongue as her other hand slid under the long-sleeved t-shirt he was wearing, gliding over the mass of dark hair that covered his torso, before returning to the hem of the garment and tugging upwards, desperate to feel him against her. He pulled away briefly to remove the item then gathered her to him, growling under his breath at the feel of skin on skin.

He kissed her until she was breathless whilst allowing his hands to rove over her body, cupping and stroking her breasts, circling and teasing her nipples to hard peaks before lowering his mouth to each one in turn. She felt his breath hot on her skin, a light scrape of teeth on velvety flesh followed by the laving of his tongue that made her whimper and twitch, before he sucked each one hungrily into his hot, wet mouth, pressing his fingers gently against her mouth in an attempt to muffle the low moans of pleasure that escaped her.

His other hand stroked along the curve of her waist and over her stomach to the elastic waistband of her pyjama pants, pausing long enough to give Robin every opportunity to object if she wished. He eased them slowly over her hips and down her thighs, and she wriggled and kicked them off once they were past her knees, simultaneously grasping his wrist.

“Cormoran…” she looked at him briefly and even in the subdued light from the streetlight coming through the thin curtains, her could see that she was both aroused and nervous,

“I’m not sure how far we should…not that I don’t want to, but…”

She bit her lip, unable to meet his eye.

“That’s fine,” he reassured her, kissing her forehead. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you’d like from me…”

She glanced up at him wide-eyed. “I…um…,” she stammered.

He trailed a finger up the inside of her thigh, listening to the sound of her breathing coming faster as his touch moved higher and higher.

“Is this okay?” His eyes were still locked on hers.

She nodded.

He gently parted her thighs so he could rest his hand against her mound, feeling the heat radiating from her core, the scent of her arousal filling his senses.

“How about this?”

Another nod. He lowered his head and kissed her with passionate reverence until he sensed she was ready for more. He slid a long finger between her lips, groaning at how wet she was. He stroked her gently, tentatively exploring her entrance and then circling her clit.

“Still okay?”

“God…yes,” she murmured, breathlessly, feeling sensation wash over her at his touch.

He smiled and continued his ministrations, making long, slow, deliberate movements across her core, applying varying amounts of pressure to her clit on the upstroke, delving a fingertip slightly deeper inside her on each downward movement.

He alternated between kissing her mouth and breasts until she writhed and whimpered beneath him, having largely forgotten to bear in mind that their friends were sleeping at the other end of the landing. Luckily he knew that both Nick and Ilsa slept like the dead when they’d been drinking.  
Robin’s entire body felt flushed with pleasure, intense heat and sensation coiling in her stomach as Cormoran slightly increased the pace and pressure of his fingertips.

“Oh God...Cormoran…oh, please…don’t stop…please…”

He raised his head to look at her, head thrown back against the pillows, eyes closed, head on one side, hair in disarray. He pressed his lips softly against her neck, then whispered in her ear, “I’m not stopping my love...I promise…come for me Robin…”

“Cormoran… _fuck!_ ”

She pronounced the vowel sound in the exact same way as she did when she said ‘bugger’ and he felt a massive rush of affection as he pulled her close and she came apart beneath him, trembling and panting. Once he was certain he’d wrung every last ounce of pleasure from her body, he wrapped both arms around her and held her tight, until he became vaguely aware of the shuddering breaths she was trying to stifle and the wetness seeping on to his chest.

“Robin? Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you…”

“God no,” her voice was muffled, her face buried in his chest to cover her embarrassment, “That was…amazing. Sorry I’m being a bit pathetic.”

“You are not pathetic. You’re perfect. And I feel like the luckiest man alive to have been able to share that with you.”

She peeked up at him.

“Really?”

“Absolutely.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well, you know…” she glanced down to where the tent beneath the duvet revealed that Strike’s arousal continued very much unabated. “You did say you wanted me to touch you…”

“Robin, that’s entirely up to you. I think it’s quite obvious that I’d like that…okay, that’s a bit of an understatement,” he grinned, “But I will be very happy to just fall asleep with you  
in my arms if that’s what you want.”

“I think you’re the one that’s perfect,” she whispered, her hand tracing the narrowing ‘v’ of hair that led to Strike’s pyjama bottoms, hearing his heart thudding beneath her ear as she lay on his chest. She ghosted her fingertips over his achingly hard length and he let out a deep groan that reverberated between them. Sitting up a little she tugged at the elastic waistband and he raised him hips to allow her to slide them down.

She turned his face to hers, kissing him deeply, enjoying the sensation of his stubble beneath her soft, full lips. Her small hands meandered down his neck, over his shoulders, arms, chest and stomach, fingernails grazed over his hipbones, before he finally felt her hand on him.

She stroked him hesitantly, taking her time to acquaint herself with the unfamiliar size and shape and feel of him, moving slowly over his length, making a mental note of those actions that resulted in a moan or twitch of pleasure.

Eventually, she paused, and raised her head to look at him.

“Cormoran…”

With some effort, he opened his eyes, “Robin…” he smiled.

“Will you…show me? How you like to be touched, I mean?”

Strike raised an eyebrow, his expression just visible in the shaft of light from the nearby streetlamp that was filtering through a gap in the curtains.

“I’m not sure you need any help at all on that front,” he murmured hoarsely, but nonetheless he wrapped his hand around hers and began to show her exactly what he needed, marvelling at how a simple hand job could suddenly become one of the most erotic experiences of his life.

Her fingers laced with his as together they found the steady pace that made his head drop back on the pillows and his hips move in synchronisation, almost of their own volition. Before long he was unable to concentrate any more and his hand dropped away, allowing her total control of his pleasure. She slowed down a little, allowing her thumb to brush, featherlight, over the head of his cock, smoothing the bead of pre-cum at the very tip into the most sensitive part of him and revelling in the primal growl that escaped his throat as a result. She gripped his shaft infinitesimally tighter and regained the rhythm they’d found together, not failing to notice the way his large fists were clutching at the bedsheets as she drove him closer to the edge.

Strike could feel the excruciating pleasure gathering in the base of his spine, as if all the sensations that had flooded through his entire body over the last hour were reuniting there, waiting to be released. It took only a dozen firm, perfectly timed strokes as he thrust up into her hand for him to come hard, with a deep, guttural moan that made Robin suddenly remember Nick and Ilsa in their bedroom a few feet away, and she leaned to kiss him, sliding her tongue against his to silence him as spasms of pleasure ripped through his body.

A few minutes later, once his breathing had returned to normal and he had cleaned up with the box of tissues Robin had passed from her side of the bed, he pulled her into his arms, tugged the duvet up around them and kissed the top of her head.

“I feel like a teenager,” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Robin replied shakily, feeling a wave of inferiority wash over her. “I guess that’s not what you’re used to with…well, I imagine all the others were a lot more…”

_Confident, experienced, adventurous…_

“Robin,” he tilted her head up to face him. “That’s not what I meant at all. I hate to remind you of the fact that I’m, relatively speaking, a bit of an old gimmer, but I can assure you in my book feeling like a teenager again is a bloody marvellous thing.”

He could sense her incredulity.

“I have wanted to be with you for longer than I should probably admit to, and I’m happy to take things at your pace for as long as you need. Honestly though…” he paused, a little reticent, wanting to tell Robin how he felt but not wanting to remind her of his past or make her feel uncomfortable. He thought for a minute longer, “…I can’t remember the last time anyone made me feel like you just did.”

She sighed with relief and contentment. “Me neither,” she admitted, and he could feel her smiling against his chest.

He stroked her hair gently with his large hand as he held her.

“Good…because I intend to make you feel like that on very regular basis, if that’s ok with you. And we can take that and anything else at whatever pace you want. Please believe me Robin, when I say I’d rather take things slowly with you than be with anyone else.”

“Okay,” she murmured, snuggling impossibly closer, suddenly too relaxed and drowsy to overthink anymore whilst she was surrounded by Strike’s arms, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

He kissed the top of her head for a final time, and drifted, smiling, into a deep and peaceful sleep.

* * *

Strike was the last person to arrive in the Herbert’s kitchen the following morning. Nick was at the kitchen table, reading the news on his iPad, whilst Ilsa was assembling bacon rolls and Robin was stood at the counter, waiting for the kettle to boil.

With a wink at her, and a fleeting glance at Ilsa to check she wasn’t holding anything breakable, he strode across the room, swept Robin into an embrace that was glaringly un-platonic and, as if to remove any possible doubt, kissed her lingeringly on the mouth.

Nick looked up at his wife’s squeal of excitement and grinned.

“At long bloody last!” he exclaimed drily, then more warmly, “Congratulations you two, it’s about time.”

Ilsa was considerably more effusive in her congratulations, and it took some time to get breakfast back on track.

The foursome ate, chatted and made plans to get together again very soon for their first official double date. It was a couple of hours more before Strike and Robin headed out together to his BMW.

Closing the door behind them, Ilsa turned to face Nick, pulling a small object out of her back jeans pocket and grinning at him as she held out her hand to show him what it was.

“I suppose I’d better put this back into the sofa,” she mused, with a sly wink.

Squinting at the tiny piece of metal glinting in her palm, Nick realised it was the screw that had been missing from the fold-out mechanism of the new sofa bed the previous evening. He looked at his wife in amused disbelief.

“Are you telling me the whole faulty sofa/bed sharing thing was a set-up?”

“Someone had to give them a nudge in the right direction,” she replied, “Who better than his oldest friend?”

“You, Mrs Herbert…” said Nick, taking the screw from his wife’s hand, placing it on the hall table and pulling her into his arms “…are a very naughty woman indeed.”

“Yes,” she whispered, with a flick of her tongue against his earlobe, “Yes, I am.”

And with that she pulled her husband upstairs and, forgetting all thoughts of malfunctioning sofa beds, set about proving to him exactly how naughty she could be!


End file.
